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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356770">Trauma Bay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots'>Slyboots</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Partners [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Slash, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, Complete, Dark, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Insomnia, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Military Science Fiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, War, can be standalone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:28:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a danger to yourself, Breakdown."</p><p>Millennia of war will damage even the toughest bot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Breakdown/Knock Out, Dreadwing &amp; Skyquake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Partners [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trauma Bay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set between S2E6: Loose Cannons and S2E7: Crossfire; assumes a roughly month-long unseen period between these two episodes. Written during a bout of insomnia.</p><p>Decepticons don’t generally function much like a real-world military. Massaged some details accordingly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Dreadwing to medbay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The connection stuttered. He plunged through the bitter cold. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Coming in for final. Possible damage to right rear aileron. Requesting a maintenance slot at earliest convenience--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The response, on an encrypted channel, cut him off. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Medical receiving loud and clear, Dreadwing. We’re open for business. Come on down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was the connection, or the encryption, but there was an odd dazed note in Breakdown’s voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be with you in a klik.” Breakdown’s low voice echoed through the medbay. “Got a couple things to finish up here--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing glanced round, blinking against the light of a dozen holoscreens. After the Arctic night the medbay was dizzying: the processed air, the tinny whir of the centrifuges, everywhere the glow of Energon cubes ready for transfusion. On the nearest berth a jet-class Vehicon convulsed, tubes running slackly from his open breastplate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might’ve been a battlefield hospital; sharper than life the memories flashed through Dreadwing’s processor. Still he strode over to the free berth. “Is Dr. Knock Out--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just me tonight. You wanna wait for 0600?” Breakdown’s tone was disarmingly casual; still he sounded dazed. “Doc gets touchy if you wake him up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enlisted mechs. Rough around the edges</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That, too, was familiar. Dreadwing ran through the dossier: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sergeant Major Breakdown, veteran of Polyhex and Iacon, Ultraviolet Star and Medal of Valor recipient, cross-trained as a nurse under the terms of Order 493--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only a mesh wound. I trust your training.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown chuckled, emerging from the lab. “Good to hear.” There was a drunken sway in his walk; his gaze was vacant, his good optic fixed on nothing. “Anything new since last time you were in here?” He lumbered into the light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing’s tanks turned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing of interest. Pardon me, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown followed his gaze. Waved it off. “Just got back from the Central Urals. Had a little waltz with the Bots. Got a couple dings in my paint.” Breakdown’s smile was crooked, his synth slurring. “That’ll buff out. I’m not too pretty on my best solar cycles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monitor shrilled, cutting Breakdown off. The Vehicon jerked, voicebox spewing static; current discharged into the air with a snap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown cursed fluently, striding over and grabbing a syringe from the nearest cart. “Sorry, Dreadwing. You’re stable; he’s not.” His gaze snapped back into focus. “Right, buddy. Hang in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neatly he punctured the fuel line. With precision born of long practice he tightened gaskets, swapped wires, checked gauges. The monitor whistled, flashing some shorthand Dreadwing couldn’t read; yet Breakdown scarcely seemed to need it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this at least Breakdown was trustworthy. Dreadwing felt himself relax by degrees; he’d gone rigid, he realized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last he straightened, the monitor’s squeals dying down to a low steady thrum. “Third time this joor. Got hurt pretty bad at the mine. My fault. Airachnid wanted me to black-tag him--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a bite in his voice when he said Airachnid’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Breakdown’s optic slid in and out of focus, as if the excitement had stirred some alertness. “Your aileron.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown,” said Dreadwing at last, “are you sure you’re well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feeling great. Never been better.” It was defensive. “Knock Out’s got me loaded up with auto-diagnostic scripts. If anything were wrong he’d be in here--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Dreadwing doubted that very much. Knock Out had not seemed the conscientious type.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Brigadier General Knock Out, MD, Acting Surgeon General of the Decepticon state</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It ran through Dreadwing’s processor automatically. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No more than a lieutenant five stellar cycles ago--</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize,” said Dreadwing through gritted dentae. His dented aileron throbbed, as if Breakdown had touched a hot coal to the fiber optic. “You’re clearly in the middle of something. I think I’ll wait for the doctor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s lips moved, his good optic narrowing, and for a klik he seemed about to snap--but he shrugged it off. “Your choice. Want a diagnostic scan while you’re here? Been recharging okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something beeped, and Dreadwing’s gaze snapped to the Vehicon--but Breakdown thumped his own chest with a groan. The beep picked up speed, a high whine that set Dreadwing’s armor rattling and sent a tingle down his mesh; a second, heartier, thump silenced it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Percussive maintenance,” growled Breakdown. Sheepish. Defiant. “Fixes everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown.” It was an effort to keep his voice level. “You’re impaired. When I saw you I thought you were intoxicated on duty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a no on the diagnostic scan, huh?” Breakdown lowered his chin, glowering under his heavy crest. “I’m clean and sober. Don’t even drink much these days.” His wheels buzzed in his shoulders, the rubber scraping metal. “Can count on one hand the number of painkillers I’ve taken this quartex.” With a forced laugh he held up one four-fingered hand. “You want an Energon sample to prove it? Can get out the spectrometer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had a rehearsed sound, and Dreadwing’s armor prickled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d dealt with impaired mechs, on the battlefield and off. Best not to confront. Best not to loom. Breakdown had seemed respectful--almost intimidated by rank--in the quartex they’d worked together. But then, Breakdown was perhaps not in control of his worst impulses--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What exactly happened at the mine, Breakdown?” Dreadwing leaned back gingerly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown crossed powerful arms. “Uploaded the whole thing when I got back. Same as always. You can ask Soundwave for the footage.” Though it was well known most of the crew edited their replays. Dreadwing had done it himself, in his weakest moments. “Bots brought the shaft down. Half our squad was offline instantly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing watched him, unblinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was in an access tunnel when it came down. Close to the surface.” And yes--the scratches in Breakdown’s paint were fresh. He’d washed off the mud and Energon (and there </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been Energon, Dreadwing knew), perhaps, and come straight to the medbay. “It knocked most of my crew cold. Those guys were gone. Crushed. Couldn’t help ‘em.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said it offhandedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dug myself out. We had some air support--the little one got a few of ‘em. Arcee.” Breakdown’s motor rumbled. “Someday I’m gonna see how well that girl flies.” He mimed throwing a body, and snorted. “Bulkhead was with her. I gave him a couple things to think about. One for each of my crew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His synth stuttered on the last word, and Breakdown’s optic widened fractionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing vented, his fans humming. The image came together, bright with spilled Energon, in his mind’s optic. “You took a serious blow to the processor.” It wasn’t a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two. Got hit on the head when the shaft collapsed.” He seemed to master himself. “The Bots pulled out after I went down. Air crew--” Breakdown met Dreadwing’s gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing admired that--the bravery, the grudging honesty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown was a good soldier, for all his faults.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pity, what the war did to good soldiers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--Yeah. Guess you’ll hear it from them. I was out for a cycle. They brought me back and we got the injured guys to the medbay.” Breakdown vented in turn, optic glowing like molten gold. “Most of ‘em could walk on their own. Minor first aid. Had to euthanize one of ‘em, and believe me, I hate doing that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Impossible not to believe him. His voice roughened; he glanced away for a klik, clenching and unclenching his fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been working on XR-984 since we got back. Think he’s gonna make it, but it’ll be close.” Breakdown vented, steadying himself with a hand on the berth. “Then you touched down and here we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit.” It was an order, and Breakdown complied almost at once; a startled look flashed over his faceplate as he realized it. Dreadwing scooted down the slab to make room. “Is Dr. Knock Out aware of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nosir. Uh. No, Dreadwing. He’s been recharging.” Breakdown leaned, with a grunt of evident relief, against the canted backrest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your self-diagnostics--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s motor purred. He gritted his dentae, lips pulling back in a dull grimace. “They’re mostly off. Couldn’t disable ‘em all. Knock Out’s got ‘em pretty deep in my coding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing cycled his optics, his fans picking up. Cool, sterile air washed over his engine. This was no time to lose one’s temper. “How long have they been off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expected </span>
  <em>
    <span>a few joors</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or at worst </span>
  <em>
    <span>a couple solar cycles</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About a quartex.” Breakdown’s gaze dropped for a klik--then he met Dreadwing’s optics, mulish and steady. “Been running regular scans. No structural damage--at least, none we can fix with the parts we got.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was of course an admission that there </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> structural damage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At times Dreadwing </span>
  <em>
    <span>loathed</span>
  </em>
  <span> good soldiers: loyal, thickheaded, willing to burn themselves on the pyre of some short-sighted objective, some skirmish that’d be forgotten in a solar cycle--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(--</span>
  <em>
    <span>orders are orders</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Skyquake had said a thousand times--)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this was no time to think of his poor brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing cycled his optics again. Rubbed his temples. “Breakdown, we both know I’m no physician.” It hung in the air. “But we </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> know you’re utterly incapable of working in this state.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown bristled, his motor picking up. His blunt fingers dug into his palms. “You think this is my first concussion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get some recharge. I’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His optic blazed. Dreadwing smelled hot oil, overheating rubber. “Cons don’t break easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing swallowed a frigid surge of fury. Fought down the urge to shake him. “You’re endangering your patients. More than that. You’re a danger to yourself, Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d not expected that to sway Breakdown--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--yet the force of Breakdown’s glare took him by surprise. From Breakdown’s uneasy posture, the way his knuckles squeaked, he was holding back anger just as much as Dreadwing was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But where Dreadwing’s temper ran cold, Breakdown’s ran hot--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--as Skyquake had run hot--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone’s gotta be here,” grunted Breakdown. His processor must have been strained by rage: it came out thick, slurred. “I’m not losing another Vehicon. Not when I don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one they gazed at the Vehicon, stiff and silent on his berth. A sickly green light poured off his monitor, projecting brutal medical shorthand across the Vehicon’s still body.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Primus save us from decent fools</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dreadwing swallowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Power down here, then. Keep an alert on your patient.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bring Dr. Knock Out online</span>
  </em>
  <span> formed in his processor. Dreadwing dismissed it. Knock Out did not seem the type to interrupt his recharge for Vehicons. “I will not have you endangering any member of this crew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown stared at his hands. “You never had your bell rung, Dreadwing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a nurse.” Now the ice was flooding into Dreadwing’s voice, however much he fought to hold it back. “The fact that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> that indicates your judgment is dangerously--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown was on his feet, with a tremendous creak. Dreadwing reached, unthinking, into subspace. His hand closed on his sword’s hilt--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what, sir?” Breakdown’s optic gleamed with a mad light. “Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> never been hurt too bad, flyboy, but the rest of us grunts--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he did not haul off. His fist twitched, as if ready at any second to produce his hammer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown. Don’t be stupid.” It sounded like permafrost cracking. Breakdown backed up a step, swaying on his feet, and a nasty thought flickered through Dreadwing’s neural net. “When did you last power down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s private,” growled Breakdown. He shook himself, venting. “Uh. It’s--been a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing set his jaw, hating being right. But once voiced, the question couldn’t be taken back. Best to follow it where it led. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>How long</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s lips moved; his optic rolled back. It was the enlisted mech in him that answered, his voice flat. “Six Earth solar cycles. Could be seven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing felt his jaw drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would be,” he said in measured tones, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>fully</span>
  </em>
  <span> justified in taking you directly to First Officer Airachnid. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how reckless--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though perhaps Breakdown--</span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Breakdown, staggering and wild-eyed--did not know much at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This? This is nothing.” Breakdown drew himself upright. “You ask me, you Seekers are soft--can’t go a solar cycle without a recharge--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a wild shot, meant to wound, and Dreadwing brushed it off without a second thought. “If this is really </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you, Breakdown, you need medical attention more desperately than I imagined.” Some of his shock leaked into his voice now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had the decency to wince as if struck. “Not that easy. Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing’s fans purred; the Vehicon’s monitors chirped their eerie rhythm. And beneath it all, so low Dreadwing had scarcely heard it at first, Breakdown’s engine sputtered and growled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Can</span>
  </em>
  <span> you power down?” said Dreadwing in a softer voice. The voice, not of a commander with an enlisted mech, but of a trainer with a terrified animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.” Breakdown smiled, humorlessly. “Can anybody on this ship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It cut deeper than Breakdown could’ve known. A chill washed down Dreadwing’s fuel lines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But of course they were all soldiers, and one way or another Breakdown had surely seen grief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Better to ignore the jab. “Does Dr. Knock Out--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s between Knock Out and me, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then. “Surely you’re aware that you’re compromised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s why I shut off the auto-diagnostics. Out of sight, out of mind.” Breakdown’s smirk darkened. He stared vacantly at Dreadwing, unseeing. “I’ll give it to you straight. I’d have to dope my whole neural net with enough tranqs to take down an Insecticon. And I don’t want to do that, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was probably true, at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing vented hot. Compassion, that was the watchword. Breakdown wasn’t himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though perhaps this--after who knew how many millennia of accumulated damage and strain--was all that was left of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing had shot good Decepticons point-blank, when they turned with bright mad optics on their brothers in arms--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sacrifices</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that was the word. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Casualties of war</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Skyquake had been a casualty; Breakdown was the walking wounded, mind and body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re in pain,” Dreadwing tried, and from Breakdown’s little twitch he knew there was no </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Surely you can take the edge off. Enough to rest.” He jerked his head toward the Vehicon, limp and still on his berth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown gazed at him with something nearly pity. “Doesn’t work that way, Dreadwing. Can’t just give myself four times what I gave him.” Almost idly he rapped a knuckle against his bicep. “Takes a whole lotta signal inhibitors to take out all of this. Not a whole lot of room for error. Couple milligrams too many, I fry my processor.” Again that ugly, humorless laugh. “Last time somebody switched off my pain receptors, they screwed it up. Not all of me came back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his other hand he tapped his optic patch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather have the pain, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that much Dreadwing understood implicitly. His dented aileron throbbed; his awareness darted, faster than thought, to every soldered gash, every rivet that ached still as the G-forces mounted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had suffered tremendously. Incomprehensibly. So had they all--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but Breakdown perhaps worse than many.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing spoke slowly, keeping his tone level. “You understand that this is a private conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Just you, me, and Soundwave.” Breakdown jerked his head indifferently. “Don’t need Airachnid hearing my private business, anyway. She’d love to have that on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Paranoid tendencies</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Another thing Dreadwing had seen too often.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chose his words with crystalline precision. “When I am in a--</span>
  <em>
    <span>turbulent</span>
  </em>
  <span> state of mind--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You too, huh?” Breakdown’s gaze softened fractionally. He folded his arms. “Sorry to hear that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hit like a fist to the Spark chamber. Dreadwing paused a klik, letting his engine cool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I neither asked for nor wish for your sympathy, Breakdown.” A polite rebuke, but a rebuke all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Private business</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Breakdown had said. From his chastened look, the hand raised defensively, he understood perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I was saying. I find meditation useful to clear my thoughts. Meditation and work--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s voicebox crackled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--but you, Breakdown, are all too eager to hide in your work.” Dreadwing spoke over him. “You’re getting unreliable whether you see it or not. This cannot continue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he’d struck a sore point. Breakdown visibly clenched his dentae, all sympathy gone. “Gotta pull my weight, sir.” And then, in a lower and more honest register, “Yeah. I work when I can’t recharge. You want me to sit on my bumper with my thumb up my exhaust port?” Heat rolled off his faceplate, palpable from a meter away. “Pardon my Kaonian, Dreadwing--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing waved it off. “This isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>paperwork</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Do you fully grasp--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” Breakdown forced the same uncomfortable laugh, shifting his weight from heel strut to heel strut. “It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> paperwork. You oughtta see Knock Out’s charts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing didn’t return the appeasing smile. “If your man offlines because of an avoidable error--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Touching, that Breakdown thought of the clones as </span>
  <em>
    <span>his squad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How oddly humane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna ask what you see when you power down. None of my business.” Breakdown’s pained smile faded; his gaze flicked back to the Vehicon. “But you don’t get through a couple million stellar cycles of war without a few dents and scratches. There ain’t a Con on this ship who’d pass a fitness-for-duty screen now. Not you. Not me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Too blunt by half. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The chill rolled through Dreadwing again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too blunt and too honest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing’s engine hitched. No, this broken mech was no Skyquake. Best to remember that. “I’ll overlook that, Breakdown.” He cycled his optics, steadying himself. “We both know I don’t have the authority to put you on mandated rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna go to Airachnid?” Breakdown rumbled, his fists clenching again. “She’s been riding my fender since--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seemed to welcome the distraction. His engine purred, the smell of hot rubber stinging Dreadwing’s sensors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would end in Airachnid executing you for insubordination.” Dreadwing’s mouth twitched with distaste. “But you might listen to Dr. Knock Out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s good optic widened, his fingertips audibly scraping his palms. His rivets squeaked as he drew himself up, shoulders tensing; in its housing his missile launcher whirred, its muzzle fixed on Dreadwing’s chest like a blind red eye.</span>
</p><p><em><span>Like a newspark testing the limits of his own strength.</span></em> <em><span>Posturing</span></em><span>.</span></p><p>
  <span>Impassively Dreadwing watched him. Pity was cool in his fuel lines; pity was a lump beneath his breastplate. “How much of Knock Out’s work have you been taking on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good bit of it.” Breakdown’s engine growled; one wheel spun in its housing, the other stiff and still. “He’s one mech,” he added, raising his hand as if to ward away Dreadwing’s gaze. “Needs, uh, his beauty sleep--” From Breakdown’s tone, he recognized the irony. “He checks my work. Nothing gets past him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That Dreadwing doubted very much. Again he rubbed his temples, venting steam in the chilly medbay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knock Out may be a poor excuse for a physician, but even he must have noticed you’re unwell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though </span>
  <em>
    <span>unwell</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a pretty word for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d expected Breakdown to bristle, to curse, to haul off for a blow. He’d expected mindless loyalty--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown grunted, servos whining, and shifted from foot to foot. “Doc sees what he wants to see. He doesn’t have to worry about me--” The pain flashed through Breakdown’s optic for a nanocycle and was gone. Yet the intensity of it was dizzying. “--and he gets to rest. Win-win.” Again he forced the sick smile, the smile that seemed now a mask. “You tell anyone I said that, I’ll smelt you. Sir. Dreadwing. Last thing I need is a reputation as a softie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be reasonable, Breakdown.” Dreadwing felt his ailerons stiffen at his back. “If I wanted to destroy you, I’ve heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> than enough already.” And then, more calmly: “I’m trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The medbay hummed. On his berth the Vehicon groaned, bands of light playing over his dull visor. Though neither Breakdown nor Dreadwing was a delicate mech, and both were revved with anger, the air tasted unnaturally clean; unnerving, the absence of hot engine-grease, of the minerally tang of exhaust--</span>
</p><p><span>“I’ve been around for a while, Dreadwing. Lotta people have tried to </span><em><span>help</span></em> <em><span>me</span></em><span>.” Breakdown shrugged, his bolts creaking. “The fewer Cons worrying about me, the better.”</span></p><p>
  <span>And there it was, spoken aloud. Dreadwing’s ailerons relaxed (and the ache raced again up his spinal struts).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truth is, Dreadwing, I figure I’m gonna offline pretty soon. I’ve made my peace with that.” Breakdown flashed a different smile--a wry, casual smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing stared. “You have--” He’d said it a thousand times before, arguing with Skyquake as the Kaonian sun rose, or barking steely orders to his squadron. “A death wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown laughed, low and weary.  “C’mon, Dread.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thousand thousand stellar cycles ago, Dreadwing would’ve taken umbrage. Yet now he merely groped for words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nemesis</span>
  </em>
  <span> hasn’t got the parts to fix my optic. Could scrap the whole Vehicon corps and not get enough raw materials to repair every piece of me. Doc Knock Out likes to think he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>just that good</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” He mimicked Knock Out’s voice, and there was real affection in it. “--but he ain’t a neurosurgeon. Even a neurosurgeon couldn’t do scrap. My whole neural net’s slagged. Has been for a long, long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His optic glowed, soft and warm. Breakdown held out a hand. With an industrial clatter the metal plates slid back--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--a fraction of a cycle too slow, and in that instant Dreadwing tasted overheating metal. Idly Breakdown tapped his sledgehammer against his thigh, seemingly savoring the dull thunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You kinda stop caring after a while, Dreadwing. You get to enjoy war.” He chuckled again. “Well, maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t. Me, I love it. It’s what I was built for. It’s killing me, but I love it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mad,” breathed Dreadwing. He could think of nothing else. “Breakdown, you’re a danger to yourself--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mute it, Dreadwing. Sir.” There was no real hostility in it. “You know, nobody’s gonna believe you if you tell anyone.” Breakdown’s voice roughened, his posture shifting. He stood like a street tough now, not a sergeant. “Half the stuff I do, you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> a brain. I got no regrets. Someday Bulkhead and I are gonna offline each other, and that’s gonna be that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile faded. “And I don’t need the doc worrying about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You realize that Knock Out needs to hear every word of this.” And Dreadwing was already compressing the audiovisual replay, uploading it to his backup storage. “This is out of your hands, Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s face tightened, his lips pulling back over his dentae. His lower lip was freshly scratched, Dreadwing noticed for the first time--from a blow, or from the mineshaft collapse. “You ever care about anybody, Dreadwing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a cheap shot, and Dreadwing felt sour coolant flood beneath his faceplate. “I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> let what remains of your judgment scuttle this ship. I owe that to the crew. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> to you, Breakdown, whether you see it or not.” He vented hard, optics fixed on Breakdown’s hammer, on its shallow tap-tap-tap on Breakdown’s thigh. In his subspace he felt the grounding weight of his sword. “When the doctor repairs my aileron, I will transfer the replay.” He cycled his optics, air rushing cool and ragged through his fans. “There is a backup. In the event I am indisposed, Soundwave will receive the backup--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s faceplate twisted. “I’m not gonna scrap you, Dreadwing. I oughtta.” The tapping picked up, dull and frantic. “I’d like to. But I won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assume Dr. Knock Out will sedate you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown shuddered visibly, shifting his weight. Impossible not to recognize it now: the body language of an enraged mech willing himself not to lunge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How volatile, how quick to anger, Breakdown had become. How striking, that no one had sounded the alarm--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--or perhaps they expected no better from Decepticon veterans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can move past this,” continued Dreadwing, relentless, and he rose. “Finish treating your patient. Knock Out arrives in the medbay at 0600, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown vented, striding forward--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and fell back, pressing his shaking fist to his chest. “Yeah. Maybe 0630. I’ll put you in the system.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Breakdown.” It was genuine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The morning joors ticked steadily past. From jet mode he shifted to robot mode, from robot mode to jet mode. From ancient memory banks he dredged Megatron’s poetry, then his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pacing his quarters he sipped warm Energon. Kneeling he cleared his processor--once, then twice--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But recharge did not come.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You ever care about anybody, Dreadwing?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Skyquake,” said Dreadwing into the gentle silence. “I won’t say your ghost is unwelcome, but--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At 0625 he reported to the medbay. The berth had been cleared; the Vehicon was gone, whether to his barracks or to recycling Dreadwing could not guess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s gaze was bleary; he reeked of fresh polish. “Is there some </span>
  <em>
    <span>rule</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you have to be seen at unholy hours? Some of us like to </span>
  <em>
    <span>recharge</span>
  </em>
  <span> at night--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over Knock Out’s shoulder Breakdown caught Dreadwing’s optic. “I got his chart here, Doc. No big changes since his physical. Bit of trouble powering down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> one before,” groused Knock Out. “Thank you, Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even through Knock Out’s sneer it sounded affectionate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You ever care about anybody, Dreadwing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown’s optic softened, tracing Knock Out’s gleaming lines. Breakdown was no actor: the need in him shone through bright as Sparklight. He set his jaw, glancing pointedly back to Dreadwing. Just barely, he shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assume the position, Dreadwing.” Perfunctorily Knock Out disinfected his claws. “Let’s see that sore aft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing kept his dignity, but it was a near thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Knock Out had been kind once, and hard-working. Perhaps Breakdown had known him then.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t need the doc worrying about that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown cracked a boyish grin. “I got the new aileron cut and sized, Doc. Whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wrench,” drawled Knock Out. And then: “Screwdriver.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a short sharp shock Knock Out jimmied the dented aileron free. Breakdown was at his shoulder at once, handing over the new panel. His gaze was very nearly steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Knock Out polished the new panel, smirking with self-satisfaction, Breakdown clapped his shoulder. His hand dwarfed Knock Out’s pauldron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s gaze flickered up, and their optics met. Knock Out’s acid smile softened. Something twitched in the pit of Dreadwing’s throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The new aileron did, after all, fit perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should have told him, Skyquake.” It’d become a habit to subvocalize on his long scouting flights. “It was cowardice. I couldn’t face it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dipped, slicing through the Arctic wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown is a ticking time bomb. Any commander fit for duty would recognize it--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreadwing broke off, catching an updraft. Even alone, even addressing a dead mech, there were things better not to say aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grief was, perhaps, clouding his processor. And in the waning days of a war there was so much to grieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time. Next time I see the doctor, Skyquake. I promise you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An easy thing, to make a promise to a dead mech, who could not hold him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were lucky, brother.” It was almost treacherous. The wind carried it away instantly. “Buried in stasis for so many stellar cycles, while the rest of us broke every vow we ever made--”</span>
</p>
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